Indigo
by glanmire
Summary: Will tries to catch a killer who re-enacts famous kills from books and movies, starting with the Princess Bride and growing more gruesome. But real life is not like fiction, and it's infuriating the killer that the crimes aren't perfect.


The victim lay on Will's floor, eyes staring unmoving at the ceiling, as if searching for some truths written up there. The skin on his face tight and drawn back like a rigid mask, ashen in colour. He had emptied his bladder and bowels, and the smell was startling.

Will looks at him, notes the long gash down one cheek, and he leans over, and there it is, another parallel cut down the other cheek.  
There were also wounds on the left shoulder, the left arm and in the chest.  
Will hunches nearer to the body, and he sees that around the heart had been sliced, possibly in an attempt to cut it out, but the job was not completed. The victim had probably died before then and of course, it wasn't fun if they weren't alive, gasping and pleading and bleeding-

He pauses, and there he is, holding a long thin sword. A sword? He wants to laugh at the absurd choice of murder weapon, but then he is slashing those lines down the man's cheeks and the blood continues to trickle down the victim's neck and into the hollow of his collarbone and-  
he is very good at this, he realises as the sword he hold lashes out again, flickering across the shoulder, the arm. The man stumbles back in pain and he steps closer, cutting the chest and the screams that follow goad him to cutting again: a quick thin line down and then-

Will breathes in. He may have lost time again. He looks at the corpse. The skin has gone more purplish, like a bruise, and almost waxy. The hands and feet have faded to icy blue colour. The victim has now been dead a half an hour or so. It is this conclusion that has Will lurching out of the room, and into the night air outside where he finds his phone and at last calls Jack.

"Twenty or thirty minutes?" Jack asks later, incredulous. The blue and red lights of the sirens intermittently flash across his face as he stares at Will. They are standing outside the crime scene. It is 11.04pm. Will has not been back inside since he snapped out of whatever catatonic stupor he was in: he remembers almost none of it.

"I lost time, Jack I thought- no I don't know what I thought."  
Jack surveys him for another moment and nods. It is perhaps understandable, upon discovering a fresh corpse in your house to panic a little, though not approved of in this business.

"Any idea why this would happen in your house?"

Will tries to ignore the accusation. "I don't even know the guy."

Jack grunts at that and leaves. Will stays where he is.

The usual happens. People come and go, their voices raised or low, pulling on gloves and snapping pictures. It is distant and Will finds he does not care. He stands where he is, watching them scurry past. He is reminded of the colour indigo, and does not care to think why.

It is the next day, or maybe only moments later when he is in Hannibal's office. It must be tomorrow, because the sun is weakly streaming in through the window.  
Dr Lecter is talking to him and Will resurfaces from his thoughts so he can listen.  
"You feel that this crime is familiar to you?" Hannibal asks, and Will thinks.  
"It's a story, I'm sure. I- I've heard these wounds before, I know it-"  
"A horror story perhaps? Or do you mean in real life?"  
"Not a horror story, but fiction. I don't remember exactly, but a character definitely killed another this way- it was uplifting, a triumph, not a gruesome act."  
"A revenge story then, where the protagonist is the avenger?"  
"Yeah, something like that."

It's not quite right, but he can't make out what it is that's missing either; he sees the blood pooling again as the man slumps against the wall, the red puddle going hard then dark brown to almost black.

He also tells Jack and the others what he knows, and they agree that a sword is an outlandish weapon, that the murderer was trying to draw attention to himself somehow. He floats the idea that this crime has been committed before, and asks does anyone else find it familiar.

Beverley smiles. "I was wondering when someone was going to say it. It's a copycat killing from the one in the Princess Bride, anyone else remember that?"  
Now she has said it Will remembers that that's what it is; eels in the water, poisoned cups, torture chambers, murder and kidnapping. It was a comedy.  
"Inigo Montoya" he says, the name coming to him easily now, "killed Count Rugen like this, same wounds. He was avenging his father."  
Thinking about the colour indigo, that it was his brain, trying to ineffectively prompt him.  
"So what, you think our killer is avenging his dad too and followed the idea from a kid's book, is that what you're saying?" Jack barks.  
Will feels the ridiculous urge to say that the Princess Bride isn't just for children, but that's irrelevant.  
"I don't know. It could be a coincidence."  
"I don't care about what you know. What do think- what does your gut say?"  
"That he's copying the work."  
Jack appraises this answer for a moment then sighs.  
"Alright guys, try and find out who this guy is and whether he could've murdered someone's dad or not."

The next body is another triumph, but for no one but the killer.  
The door had been on a chain, and he had shoved his hand inside, undid the latch and forced his way in.  
Will walked through the door and into the dead woman's sitting room. Pages were scattered around, adorning the floor and table like confetti.  
The woman screams wildly and he approaches her like an animal, backing her into the corner. He does not have a weapon but his animalistic presence is enough. She moves against the fireplace and scrambles for something, anything. Ornaments crash to the floor. She fights back, kicking and biting but he is pulling at his trousers-  
she is on the floor now, and her pretty little skull gets shoved unmercifully against the marble fireplace, that solitary contact carving a chunk out of the back of her head out, and so she dies.

Will blinks again, and he is back at the door, his hands gripped tight around the doorframe. He loosens his hold and calls Jack.

"I believe that killer is re-enacting famous murders from novels and books. First the Princess Bride, now a Clockwork Orange. He's trying to do it exactly the same, but of course, reality des not work like that. For instance, in the book he would have had three companions, and the girl's boyfriend would be there too, forced to watch. So it's not a perfect copycat, not by any means."

"Is there any way to predict what he'll do next?"  
"None so far. The victims themselves aren't connected, in only that they resemble the characters in the stories to a certain extent. Pete Broderick, his first victim, probably did not kill the murderer's father, and most likely only offended or affronted him in some way so that the killer felt the need to exact revenge."  
"And this woman?"  
"She just fit the role, in his mind anyway."

Jack doesn't answer for a moment, and Will knows he doesn't like this theory but they've got nothing else.  
"Will, are you sure we're looking for the same guy? I mean, a sword fight and breaking into someone's house, they're very different crimes."  
Will knows Jack has a point, but he also knows that it's the same guy.  
"I'm sure."


End file.
